Meet the Family, or: Samwell Tarly's Lavender Wedding Extravaganza
by lordhellebore
Summary: Modern AU in which Sam's family come to visit and Jon has plans for homophobic Randyll and Dickon.


**Content:** Domestic violence, homophobia, crossdressing ****

* * *

"Why is it suddenly purple?"

Sam has the distinct memory that he'd left in the morning with the living room being painted white, and that it had been white ever since they'd moved in two years ago. Now, coming home from work, he is greeted by light purple walls.

"Because," Jon tells him, with the paint roll still in hand and, as Sam observes only now, several matted purple streaks in his long hair, "your family is coming to visit and you told me you want to piss off your father and brother as much as possible."

"Um." Why, precisely, Jon expects that to make sense to him, Sam doesn't know. "That's right, but – but what does the colour of the living room have to do with it all?"

Jon grins. "People like them think it's a _gay colour_ or some such nonsense, so we better live up to the stereotype, right?"

Sam blinks – rather stupidly, as he assumes – for some moments. This is . . . not exactly what he'd envisioned when talking about pissing off his father and Dickon. He'd thought about some hand-holding in front of them, maybe even kissing. Heck, the fact alone that he'll be under the roof of his gay son with his equally gay boyfriend will be enough to ruin his father's entire month at least. But obviously, Jon is taking a more _aggressive_ approach.

Still, it doesn't look half bad, and the thought of his father's face once he'll enter the room makes him snicker nervously.

"I knew you'd like it." Jon is by his side now, slinging an arm around Sam's shoulders. "And there's more – if you'll let me."

More? Jon's smile has turned rather wolfish by now, and Sam is tempted to tell him no, this is quite enough already. He wants to make them uncomfortable, wants to see them squirm and grumble, and if his father decides to never visit again, he'll be more than fine with it. But if they lay it on too thickly, if there were to be anything more . . . he just doesn't want for his father to get _angry_.

Whenever he gets angry at Sam, there's yelling and insults, he'll be called _nancy_ and _sissy_ and _freak_ if it's a good day – if it's not, there'll be slaps and clouts and worse, like the broken nose once when he'd told his mother he'd run into a lamp-post reading, like the dislocated shoulder he'd blamed on anonymous schoolyard bullies, or that night that had driven him out of the house once and for all. You don't make Randyll Tarly angry, because then he gets loud and violent and _scary_ and . . .

. . . and Jon squeezes Sam's shoulder; he's warm and strong against his side, and Sam remembers that his father can't do a damn thing to him. Not anymore, not for years, and most certainly not while Jon is here with him. That part of his life is over – once and for all.

Sam swallows hard. "Whatever you have in mind, bring it on. All of it. Just – don't tell me right now or I'll chicken out after all."

* * *

"What's with the pig-tails?"

Jon turns around and Sam almost squeaks in surprise: not only is Jon's unruly hair forced into quite ridiculous-looking pig-tails, but he's shaved off his beard and is sprouting bright red lips. Sam notices he's holding lipstick, there's several more make-up items and . . . is that an eyelash curler that's lying on the bathroom counter?

"Why – why are you trying on make-up?"

"Because," Jon says, and weirdly enough, Sam is mesmerised by the way his white teeth flash between the red, "when your family visits, I'll be wearing drag."

For a moment, Sam is sure that he must be hallucinating – then he remembers the plan and how he'd told Jon to bring it on, all of it. Still, he hadn't thought . . .

"He'll either faint or punch you in the face if we spring this on him unannounced."

Jon puts down the lipstick and before Sam knows what is happening, he's kissing him with those full, red lips. It's making Sam dizzy in a way he hasn't experienced before.

"He can try," Jon whispers against Sam's mouth when the kiss is over, "but we both know who'd win that fight. Besides –" there's another kiss, and Sam wonders if he can ask Jon to wear lipstick again once all of this is over – "you said he prides himself on being oh so _normal_ and _proper_ , and I doubt that attacking someone in front of his wife and daughters is considered either of those."

Which is true: all the physical abuse had been happening out of his mother's and sisters' sight. It means that his father isn't choleric, isn't incapable of controlling himself, but that all of it was deliberate. It's worse this way, and Sam doesn't want to think of it, so he pulls Jon closer for another kiss. Jon, who's all lean muscle against Sam's softness, who's had no problem taking out the three guys trying to attack them last year for holding hands in public while walking home from the movies – too bad they picked the local MMA champion and his boyfriend as targets.

"You're right," Sam mutters between more kisses – he'll be damned if they don't take this to the bedroom. "And if he tries, he'll only have himself to blame."

* * *

"Explain it to me again – _why_ do we need to pretend to be married?"

The living room has been transformed into a photo studio: one of the purple walls is now bare of furniture, there are shades and lamps and a thin, long-haired guy with a camera who'd trailed in in Sansa's wake as she'd entered the house carrying a wedding dress that is a vision of white silk and chiffon.

A wedding dress that – much to Sam's amazement – looks no less stunning once Jon is wearing it.

"Because," Jon says as Sansa is putting finishing touches on the black tailcoat she brought for Sam and in which he feels like he's dressed up for some Victorian reenactment, "if there's one thing that's going to piss your father off even more than you living together with a gay crossdresser –"

" – it's being married to one," Sam finishes for him.

"Precisely."

This is getting beyond ridiculous. But in for a penny, in for a pound – Sam told Jon he'd go along with whatever he'd come up with, and by now he's almost stopped worrying about his father's reaction.

"I'm blaming all of this on Rhaegar, just so you know."

Jon smiles sheepishly, and Sam groans. "It was his idea in the first place, wasn't it? I should have known from the start." And really, he should have. With the spectacle Jon's biological father had made of his coming out as gay to his own majorly homophobic father and that'll undoubtedly be passed down in family history for generations to come, it's no wonder he'd delight in helping to stick it to another parent of the same unsavoury opinions.

"Just please tell me he's not coming too? I'm not ready for that kind of in-law interaction just yet."

"God no, neither am I. I want to annoy them, not have it end in murder."

At least they're in agreement there.

"All done." Sansa steps back, throwing one last appraising glance at Sam. "Perfect."

It is, Sam has to admit as he looks into the full-length mirror they brought in from the bedroom. In the black tails and purple shirt, with the black bow-tie and a flower the exact same colour as the shirt sprouting from the button hole on the lapels, he looks almost something approaching handsome. It's the first time he understands what Jon might see in him – and even if the visit ends in some kind of disaster, that realisation alone is worth it.

"Thank you, Sansa. You didn't have to do all of this." She's close to her finals in fashion school, and Sam knows if it weren't for them she'd be studying right now or working on her final collection.

"Oh, nonsense, this is amazing fun! I've always wanted to dress up Jon, but he's never let me before. And you – you should wear formal clothes much more often, you look good in them. Lavender really is your colour." She waves a hand at the walls. "I picked the shirt and the flower to match the room; nice touch, by the way. If you go full gay stereotype on them, might as well get it historically accurate."

"I'll explain when we're done with the pictures," Jon chimes in, noticing Sam's confusion. "Rhaegar told me when we came up with the plan."

"Besides," Sansa interrupts with a sly smile, "I'll use the pictures for my portfolio, if the two of you don't mind. The tails and dress are my own designs, and you're the perfect models for them. We've got quite enough conventional pictures of wedding attire in the industry – it's getting boring, really. This is just what I needed."

Sam can feel the blood rush to his face. "They – they'd be in the portfolio of a fashion designer? Pictures of _me_?"

"I don't see why not," Jon says as he walks over to them – and when, Sam wonders, did he learn to walk so well in high-heels? "You're gorgeous."

Sam decides not to protest, and he'd have been cut short anyway by Jon's gentle kiss. _You may kiss the bride_ , Sam thinks as he returns it, and there's a sudden twinge of disappointment that all of this is nothing more than a prank.

* * *

"Well, that's the single most impressive thing I've ever seen someone do," Talla says as the door falls shut behind Randyll and Dickon.

Sam isn't quite sure if what happened deserves the term _impressive_ , but he's glad she sees it that way, and it sure feels like one of the _best_ things he's ever done. He wants to reply, but doesn't manage; he's shaking like a leaf, and suddenly Jon is grabbing him – which is good because his knees are giving in – and helping him to sit down on the couch.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, mum. Just . . . a bit shaken, is all. I hadn't really planned on saying any of that."

He definitely hadn't. Oh, he'd known there would be a scene: there was no way his father and Dickon wouldn't lose it at the sight of the lavender walls with the huge wedding photo hanging directly over the couch, and on top of it Jon being present in the flesh, wearing a skin-tight black dress, red patent leather high-heels and equally red lipstick (though thankfully, no pig-tails after all). He'd expected grumbling and yelling especially from his father – and he'd got both in spades.

What he hadn't expected was for himself to snap.

Listening to his father go on and on, red faced and growing louder by the second, about how Sam should never have been born, how he was disgusting and a shame to the family name – that was one thing. Sam had heard it all before countless times. But then he'd went on, had called Jon _revolting_ and _tranny_ and asked how Sam could ever have believed he'd stay under one roof with _that thing._ And just like that, it had been enough.

"Stop it," he'd heard himself say in the middle of his father's tirade – so quietly at first that Randyll had simply gone on shouting. The second time had been louder, and the third time, he'd matched his father's volume, making him fall silent and gape like an absurd human-shaped fish. Sam had never before raised his voice to him, not once in the 17 years before Randyll had driven him out of the house.

"Are you listening?" Sam had said, more quietly again. "Because I want you to listen to me this once. You owe it to me after I've had to listen to you insult me all my life, and worse." Part of him couldn't believe he was speaking to his father like this, and it was that part that wanted to turn and run and let Jon sort out this horrible mess they'd got themselves into. But then Jon had squeezed his shoulder, and there'd been a look from Dickon – one of grudging respect like he'd never seen from him before – and he'd known he had to go on.

"I don't care what you think of me. I don't think I realised it before today, but I really don't care even one bit. But I won't have you insult Jon." Here, Randyll had snorted and thrown a disgusted glance at Jon that quite clearly said, "What else should one possibly do with someone like _that_?" – but he'd stayed quiet.

"Jon's my husband, and I love him. He's done more for me in the five years that I've known him that you ever have, and to have your own son tell you that really is something to be ashamed about. It doesn't matter if he likes dresses and make-up. He's been there for me, and you haven't."

"Now listen here, boy –"

"No, you keep listening." Sam couldn't believe he was interrupting his father yet again, but by now, he couldn't care anymore, consequences be damned. "Nothing of what's important to you matters. Not how Jon looks, not how we paint our house, not that I'm gay and fat and unathletic and nothing like you always thought your son should be. If you can't accept us, you don't deserve us. And in that case I think it would be for the best if you left."

After that, he'd expected all hell to break loose, but instead there'd been dead silence, and after some moments Randyll had turned on the spot and walked out of the house without another word. Dickon had followed him, leaving Sam wondering if he'd just hallucinated the last couple of minutes. Because he couldn't have possibly done this.

"I'm glad you did it," he now hears his mother say, and when he focuses on the present, she's sitting next to him on the couch, her hand on his arm. "I really am. And . . . I should've told him all of this in front of you a long time ago."

Sam shakes his head; he knows she's not been spared Randyll's temper. "It doesn't matter anymore. Just – will you stay?"

"Of course we'll stay!" Talla interrupts, and Genna and Elyn nod emphatically. "If dad and Dickon have to be idiots about this, it's their loss. And besides, I could really do with some styling tips from Jon. Those shoes are to die for."

"Speaking of which," Jon says with a pained grimace on Sam's other side, "I really need to get out of them before my feet start bleeding."

"You see," Sam admits with a sheepish grin, "he doesn't actually wear women's clothes. At all." And, he thinks, isn't that a pity. "And – and we're not married either." More's the pity, again. "His sister's in fashion school, and she designed the wedding dress and the tails and we took pictures just because –"

"Wait," Elyn inquires, "you're telling us you two put on this entire show just to piss off dad?" At Sam's nod, she breaks into laughter, and after just a few moments, everyone else joins in.

Sam looks at Jon, white teeth once more flashing between bright red lips, and because the sight alone makes his head spin with love and desire and so much _more_ , and also because after what he's done already he feels braver today than he can ever remember feeling before, he manages to say: "I don't want it to be just for show, though."

The others fall silent, all eyes on him, and Sam feels hot blood rush to his face. Jon is frowning in confusion – probably trying to figure out who his boyfriend got switched for and when it happened.

"Sam?" He sounds almost as incredulous – and as hopeful – as Sam feels. "Are you . . . _proposing_?"

"I –" Sam can't believe he's doing this, but it's what he wants, and by the way Jon's looking at him, he seems to want it as well. "I think I am. Jon, will you marry me?"

The answer is a "Yes," followed by a kiss that, once again, makes Sam feel all kinds of dizzy. And maybe that's for the best, because this way, he can add without thinking much about it: "In Sansa's dress."

* * *

The wedding is a full success.

Randyll and Dickon are neither invited nor missed.

Jon does wear the dress.

And if, in the future, Rhaegar keeps telling the story as if he'd brought all of it about single-handedly – well. Jon and Sam won't complain.


End file.
